


Wings of the Fallen

by Plainly_Colorful



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Sam Winchester, Castiel is a Winchester (Supernatural), Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean Winchester is Protective of Sam Winchester, Demons, F/M, M/M, Past Ruby/Sam Winchester, Poor Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Werewolves, Winged Castiel (Supernatural), Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26342686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainly_Colorful/pseuds/Plainly_Colorful
Summary: When cast out of heaven Lucifer was stripped of two of his three sets of wings. The wings took to hiding from the heavenly host that severed them, waiting for the day they can be reunited with Lucifer.After he is freed from the cage, Lucifer found one set of his wings and reconnected with them. But no one seems to be able to find them.Well until a Winchester crashes into them and they attach to him. Now he and his brother must run from heaven and hell once more. All the while one tries to learn how to deal with his new wings and everything that comes with.---------------------------"Brother, you have not only betrayed your family, but also your duty. To protect and guide humanity," Michael said over him, like an executer reading out a criminal's crimes before they kicked the chair out from under him. They offered him no last words, everyone knew what he would say.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Lucifer/Sam Winchester, Ruby/Sam Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 21





	1. Fall of the Favored

Freedom, something Lucifer had fought so hard for. And what did he have to show for it? His brother, the one who could be considered a close second to him before his rebellion, holding a flaming sword to the nape of his neck. 

The familiarity that was once held between them was gone, overtaken by the look of a warrior. He snarled, that's all they were to their father, just pawns for the little pet project he decided was better than his own children. 

Maybe he could have been saved at that moment, shown forgiveness. He was still pure and holy, just misguided. He could have righted his wrong given the chance and fixed the broken family. But those were only the could have been. No, instead his resentment towards humans hardened. He wouldn't have taken any deal that could be made with heaven. No, he'd rather burn than kneel to them.

It seemed he had no choice, he could have let out a hollow laugh at that. Free will and angels did not mix, his lost war was just another example. Here he kneeled surrounded by all of the heavenly host present to watch the skeptical. The once-great archangel now had his wings bound. They knew his power he could escape them if not for his binding.

They were weak. Pathetic creatures the lot of them, he should have killed them. They held his same beliefs in humans, but they stayed quiet and bit their tongues.

"Brother, you have not only betrayed your family, but also your duty. To protect and guide humanity," Michael said over him, like an executer reading out a criminal's crimes before they kicked the chair out from under him. They offered him no last words, everyone knew what he would say.

Lucifer, God's favored, was not one to be denied. He opened his mouth to speak, to curse his siblings or to spite them. But he was never given the chance as his once beloved brother's sword cut off his outer wings.

Magnificent wings that once would gently lead smaller angels aside as so they would stay out of trouble now were severed from their host and fell to earth without care. His siblings that once giggled as they hid from one another under his grand plumage now watched him with revulsion.

Lucifer wished he didn't give his siblings the satisfaction of his screams. The hullinating, him an archangel, an archangel above even his peers. They may share the trait of three powerful sets of wings, but he was far superior. He at least got to see them all squirm and pull their own wings closer. 

He looked at Raphael standing beside him and Michael, just watching his fellow archangel be torched. He felt what could describe as a pang of loss as Gabriel was nowhere to be seen, but also a relief. He must have fallen in the war. Gabriel was one of the heavenly hosts Lucifer loved most. If Gabriel was there watching, Lucifer could say for certain if he could keep up his strong facade.

He looked around at his siblings through the hair that had fallen over his face. Angles he had known since creation, now looking at him as if they were above him. How dare they, he was an Archangel, he could smite them even with only two wings. 

He was brutally pulled from his thoughts as he felt the searing pain of the flaming sword once more.

A low and dastertased blow as the smallest and most sensitive wings were served from him. The pain was blinding. His body felt as if his grace was trying to do anything to stop the scalding of his body, his wings, anything just to end the pain. Anything to just make it stop. Just. Stop.

He threw his pride to the ground as he screamed. He would have thrown himself at the feet of a pathetic human.

Anything. 

Just. Make. It. Stop.

He didn't hear the gasps of horror. He didn't hear the sound of the two remaining archangels gasping. The sound of Michael's flaming sword falling to the ground as it slipped from his grasp.

He didn't hear the snapping of his remaining wings changing into something satanic. Once pristine white that gleamed with colors, only beings of heaven could comprehend. The seemed to bleed from the top as sharp bone pierced the skin. Once diamond-like wings grew into a twisted version.

These new wings were far from holy, yet all present were surprised they snapped free of their bondage. As this new being stood they could only stare. 

This was no longer an archangel or even an angel. This was no longer their brother, they had killed him. Left in his place was a disfigured monster, taken this new form do to try and survive.

Lucifer was now freed of his bondage. He stood and looked around. He felt nothing for these holy strangers, these hollow warriors. The look in his eyes held none of the warmth they held not minutes ago. No, it was cold. Far, far, too cold for any angle, their grace was far too hot to allow it. Even when taking human vessels there was a warm thrum of grace running in their veins.

Now it was more of a river in December, slow and cold. Wanting to pull anyone close enough into its depths of pride bruised black and blue and anger that once burned so hot now burned itself cold. Frost covered the ground of heaven around him. 

It covered him. Even his growtesic A sick mimicry of his once holy trio of wings. His monstrous wings were held high as a thin sheen of ice-covered them in an intimidating manner. The sharp bone promised to catch and tear anything near it as it gleamed sickeningly. 

He leaped at the closet angel to him. He gripped their arm tight with a vicious snarl, the frost that covered his hand as a well-fitting glove began at crawl up the angel's arm.

The angel was in such a state of shock that they did nothing, just sat there and watched as the ice grew up their arm.

Lucifer smirk with wild glee as he pulled the angle to the ground. Then pinned them down, the sound of two warriors pulling their blades. One trying to slaughter the other, one just trying to make it out of this ordeal alive.

Michael finally snapped out of his shock from what had happened to his brother. He moved with an urgency unknown to most Angel's as he reacquired his flaming sword from where he had foolishly dropped it.

He grabbed its shoulder from where it sat over another of their siblings. The two beings both had their blades out. Lucifer trying to stab the poor angel and the other trying to stay alive.

Pulling the abomination up, Michael beat his three powerful wings and pulled them to the sky. Lucifer could do nothing to fight his brother. He had been cut down to the power of a normal angel, before his transformation.

Even now as an unholy grutestic image of an angel, he could not fight back.

Michael nodded to Raphael to open the cage. It was made specifically for Lucifer, to keep his influence from corrupting any more.

Michael refused to let himself look at the creature that was once his brother. It's sinful frost threaten to crawl up his hand. As it flinched closer, Raphael gave the nodded as the sound of the cage opening reached him

Quicking covering up his deep sadness with disdain, Michael gripped Lucifer tight. He snapped all his wing closed as he angled himself towards the cage's opening.

He could feel the creature tense as it knew its end was nearing. It tried to fight and beg, but Michael was relentless in his hold.  
Finally giving in to the creature's demands, he released his hold as the throw with all his might. His wing opened and gave powerful flaps to avoid the pull of the cage.

The cage slammed shut with a grand thrum that echoed throughout heaven, a finale reminder of what they had done.


	2. Wolves and Wings

Lucifer was free. The two brothers who had been trying to stop the devil from breaking free were in the end, the ones who opened the door.

After countless days and nights of trying to find ways to undo their damage, they conceded. There was nothing they could do. So, they did what they could and went back to business, as usual, stopping what monsters they could.

Vampires, ghosts, skinwalkers, wendigos, and what they were after now, werewolves. For the past three months, reports of "wild animal" attacks had been coming from a small town in Kentucky. So the boys packed their bags for another road trip.

With the help of Agent Weekley and Agent Bleakly, their FBI covers, they quickly gained access to the bodies.

"Here you are, agents. Mr. Boris' body," said the Diener as he handed them a clipboard full of the deceased’s information.

The taller agent, Weekley, thanked him as he took the clipboard. The diener walked out, leaving the agents alone with the mangled body.

The shorter of the two agents instantly got into a familiar stance. Feet shoulder length apart, arms in the optimal position. The left-hand flat in front of him, right hand in a fist resting on the other, waiting.

Weekley rolled his eyes, "Really Dean?"

Dean only motioned with his hands, still in the same position, "C'mon Sammy."

With an annoyed sigh, Sammy put the clipboard down on a nearby table and mirrored the other's actions.

The sounds of meeting palms sounded in the morgue three times before the signs were chosen. Rock and a paper. Dean smirked and quickly snatched up the clipboard.

"You never choose rock," Sam grumbled at his loss as he rolled up his sleeves. Dean only smirked and threw a pair of rubber gloves at his brother.

Though annoyed and disgusted by the task at hand, Sam was serious. He grabbed a pair of scissors and started opening up Mr. Borris. Covering his nose with his free hand at the stench of rotting organs, Sam stuck the other hand into the body.

Feeling around the now cold inners of the man he began looking for the heart. Dean was acting as a lookout as he looked through the papers.

"I'm not finding anything, Dean," the indescribable sound of a hand exiting a corpse didn't stop the conversation, "So it's safe to assume it's a wolf."

"Aw yeah! Don't give me that look. If hunters can be excited for hunting bears for attacking farm animals, I can be excited for hunting a werewolf."

Sam threw his gloves into a nearby trash can while hiding a fond smile. When was the last time they'd gotten to act like this? Lately, it had been, well, apocalyptic.

Sam and Dean quickly finished up what business they had in the morgue before heading back to their motel. There they researched more about the case. They double checked everything, making sure it was a werewolf and not something they had mistaken it as. 

They also took a look at the victims. Christopher Borris, an English teacher at a local high school. Wendy Miller, a visiting college outreach person. And Bailey Tanners, a recent graduate. All were found near their home, all on nights they had visited a local coffee shop, Expression Bean, that had poetry readings. 

From what the brothers could tell, it was a server at Expression Bean, Monica Holler. She had been in Mr. Boris' class with Bailey Tanners. The two had been neck and neck for a full-ride scholarship. Monica accused Bailey of stealing her entries. Wendy Miller, who was overseeing the contest, ruled that they were in fact Bailey's original work and kicked Monica from the contest entirely.

By the time the full moon arrived, they had no doubts that she was the wolf. They had to kill her before she attacked another person. She had a taste for blood and there was no stopping her now.

They followed her as she walked through the edges of the town. Dean tried to stop her before she ran into her next victim, but she seemed to know he was a hunter and ran with wild panic. 

Sam was quick to intercept and give chase. But as the two ran down the edges of the old town, she pushed Sam down an alley to give herself more time for an escape. Sam was up to resume the chase when he fell through an old door.

It gave away under his weight as years and years of dust flew up and into the air with a great boom. Sam quickly jumped up and looked around for any sign of danger. 

None. Well, none if you don't count the copious amounts of warding that seemed to have faded with time. Sam took a step closer to the warding, trying to understand what they were warding against.

He had only seconds to look before he heard the sound of snarling. The werewolf. With only a second glance back, Sam ran back into the fray.

Following the sound of snarling and banging, Sam ran up to a sight most did not see often: a grown man leaning all his weight onto a cage that held what were once cardboard boxes and an angry werewolf.

Sam rushed over to his brother and added his weight. Dean barely glanced at his younger brother as he grabbed his gun from where it had been thrown across the dirty alley and aimed it at the wolf.

A single gunshot was heard before everything stilled. The two took a breath. 

* * *

Sam and Dean sat on the hood of the Impala as they burned the body of Monica the werewolf. If anyone saw them, they would think they were crazy and deranged. Who knew, maybe they were.

"Dean, what are we going to do about that crypt I found?"

Dean took a swig of his beer, "nothin’, we're gonna leave it alone. It's been sitting there since long before us, and it can sit long after us. Nothing but dust got out, so only more problems will come out of it if we go pokin'."

Sam watched as the flames danced, taking with them what remained of Monica. Dean was probably right, they had enough on their platel as it was. But he couldn't help but feel as if there was something in that crypt.

Sam's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a phone. He glanced over at Dean as he answered it.

"Yes, this is Agent Bleakly." He was quiet for a moment while he listened to whoever was on the other side of the call. His face went from placid to snapping his head over to Sam with wide eyes.

Dean quickly hung up, "There's another body, on the other side of town."

The two of them knew what this meant. They had to find this wolf before the night was up or there could be even more casualties. Monica was a werewolf, so that meant they had killed a pack member as another was still out there.

The pyre that once held Monica was a small flame burning ashes. With a glance, the two set off. Dean got their guns and Sam was covering the ashes of the once-great pyre. Within minutes they were gone and the evidence of their deeds had vanished.

The two split up to look for the wolf. Dean went to the latest victim to look for clues of any kind. Sam went to the other side of town to check Monica's home for clues of who the other werewolf could be.

As Sam drove, he wished he was in the Impala. He smelled strongly of smoke with hints of dog. What he wouldn't do for a shower. Or at least a shower in a can, also known as Axe.

* * *

He internally cursed enough to make a sailor blush as he ran through the rundown town once more. Sam could see the same abandoned storefronts he ran past just hours ago, another werewolf on his heels.

"Damnit, Dean," Sam cursed again as he tried calling his brother for what seemed like the hundredth time. again, leaving yet another message. What was holding his brother up? The werewolf was a yard behind him, the same one from the latest attack as the poor soul's innards were fresh on the mutt's breath.

Soon Sam saw the familiar opening of the crypt. He didn't even hesitate as he ran inside. He blocked the doors as best he could before heading deeper into the crypt in the hopes of finding something.

Sam had dropped his gun while on the run, now he had to find something to protect himself from the wolf just outside the doors. With a small flashlight, Sam explored the crypt.

Sam didn't know what he had expected from a dusty old crypt with a side of Winchester luck. The newest thing in here had to be centuries old at the very least. Tapestries hung from the walls with messages weaved into them, but Sam had so little light he had no clue what they were trying to convey. Weapons, shields, jars of who knows what, books, and even clay tablets littered the room.

The sound of the werewolf banging on the door brought Sam out of his stupor and he began looking at the weapons.

He saw many daggers encrusted with runes and gems alike, but a sword bought his attention instead. It gleamed as the flashlight shone upon it and Sam could tell it was silver. Good news. Bad news, Sam had no clue if it was cursed or not. The entire crypt gave off cursed vibes, so he had no clue if the sword was safe.

But it was the best thing at his disposal, because to use any dagger, he would have to be closer than he'd like with the pissed-off wolf.

So he did the best of what he could and took off his flannel. Using it as a barrier between himself and the sword, Sam readied himself for the wolf. And as the sound of the door breaking echoed, he wasn't a moment too soon.

The sound of the werewolf chasing after Sam could be heard throughout the crypt.

Sam readied himself as the two caught sight of one another. The werewolf snarled as it bounded towards Sam, a murderous gleam in its dark eyes.

Sam barely had time to think before the werewolf was on him. He swung the sword with years of practice trying to cut at its neck or heart while also trying to keep it away. The fight between werewolf and hunter began.

The fight continued on, for how long he couldn't say. Then Sam's undershirt got caught on something. It could have been a chest, but he had no time to look. He jerked his shirt free, but it came with the price of toppling the maybe chest to the floor and ripping the shirt.

The werewolf let out a viciously gleeful snarl as it sunk its teeth into Sam's arm. The hunter, with his one free hand, stabbed the sword into the werewolf's neck.

But desperation could only get him so far.

The sword was halfway lodged into the beast's neck, and it let its hold on Sam go as it yelped in pain. The hunter grasped his bitten arm and hissed in pain before toppling to the floor.

The youngest Winchester tripped over bits of the broken chest, falling directly into what was left of the box.

If he thought the pain in his arm was anything, Sam soon found that he was wrong. Dead wrong. His back now held the worst pain he had ever felt in his life. Billions of tiny knives seemed to be digging into his back, melting together under on an onslaught of heat. The pain ran deep, deep into his soul. 

Not a sound could escape him, as the pain was far too debilitating. The physical world seemed to disappear in the blinding white-hot flash of agony pain.

Then in seconds, Sam Winchester passed out.


	3. Wet Wings Don't Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up, yay! But uhhh, dude you got little something... oh nothing big, just wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not beta read yet

A low groan escaped into the silence of the still motel room. With more effort than usual, Sam sat up and glanced around the room. It was nothing to take note of, just another motel they would pass through. It wasn't familiar, but motels never were, were they? They all blended together after years of jumping from one to the other, never staying long enough for anything to become more than acquainted before driving off.

One thing that stood out was the lump of a man, he was settled between mounds of books. A cool bright white light from a laptop lit the lump and its books, a stark contrast from the almost sickly yellow from the only two lamps in the room.

"Dean?" 

Said man's head shot up to look at Sam, looking at him as if he were back from the dead. Again.

"Sam?" He quickly jumped out of his chair looking over his younger brother with a brand of overprotectiveness completely his own, "How do you feel? Does anything hurt?"

"I feel fine Dean!," Sam put his hands up in surrender to show he was not about to fall to the ground dead and to calm the elder Winchester.

"What happened? I don't remember anything after we split up,"

"Well shit Sam, I don't know. I got your calls and rushed over as fast as I could, but when I got there I found you in that god damn crypt." Dean crossed his arms as he threw in, "And I thought we said we'd stay away from that." 

Sam tried to defend himself, but he continued, "But anyway, it looked like there was an explosion where you were. Everything was destroyed and no sign of the werewolf, but you were fine. Passed out, but fine. But you know how things go, the warding that somehow survived started to fade, and I got us out of there. Who knows what could have been trapped in there and survived," [oo]

Sam stood there a moment, just taking in the information. Then he let out a sigh, somehow he knew this would cause them more problems down the line.

That's when Sam became aware of how stiff he felt. He went to rub his neck, with the hope of relief. He let out a grunt, and despite the initial pain, Sam tried to work it out.

"Sammy," He looked at Dean. Even in the poorly lit room, Sam knew those green eyes were flooded with concern and worry. It was a familiar look, if Sam had any skill with the arts he could have drawn them from memory. "Are you sure you are ok?"

Sam wanted to roll his eyes. He knew Dean was just worried, neither of them knew what exactly happened, and he was just looking after him like always. But Sam wasn't a kid anymore, and he couldn't help but be irked that Dean seemed to think a bit of stiffness was going to send him to heaven again.

"Look, Dean, I'm going to take a shower. Why don't you take a break and get us some food, then when you come back we can look at this together,"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm just hoping the water is hot," Sam said with a lopsided smile, they both knew the chances were slim. But it was normal banter, normal enough to show he was fine, or as close as they could get.

Sam watched as Dean finally left to get food, the sound of the impala roaring to life and her fading was the backdrop as Sam went to the bathroom.

Stripping his dirty shirt off he glanced at himself in the mirror. His large frame was surprisingly unmarred for how stiff he felt and not to mention what Dean had described.

Sam turned away from his reflection, stripping the rest of his clothing he stepped into the shower. Turning the knob with the red ring, Sam sent a silent prayer that the water would be warm.

Apparently, he wasn't as much as an abomination as he thought he was, as he was blessed with hot water. While the heated water was still available, Sam scrubbed himself clean of the day before.

As the last suds were washed away, Sam stood under the hot water. It beat down onto his sore shoulders, offering some relief.

What happened? Dean had gotten the call and the two split. Then… things got blurry. He remembered running. Hiding. Then waking up. Then… nothing. His memory went dark and the next thing he knew, Sam was awake in the motel.

Sam ran his hands over his face as if trying to wipe away the blurriness of his memory. It was similar to trying to wipe away fog from a mirror, but the reflection was still unclear. The water started to grow cold, as he turned it off. He knew he should have expected better than to remember. Stepping out of the shower Sam quickly dried himself.

In life, Sam found small joys. For instance, being able to put on a pair of pants not covered in dirt or blood, it brought a smile to his face. Linking his fingers, Sam raised his arms above his head and stretched. Closing his eyes he heard different popping sounds. Then a familiar, froosh.

His eyes snapped open.

He stood frozen for a moment. Whoa,  
Dean must have given him something, and it was affecting him. He was hallucinating like when he was having demon blood withdrawals. That could be the only explanation, he couldn't have wings.

Starting at the base of his shoulder blades large wings sprouted. Barely fitting in the tiny motel bathroom, one brushed against the still wet shower wall, the other was in an uncomfortable half-open type position so as to not damage the feathers.

He could barely tear his eyes from pristine snow-white feathers. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts.

How did this happen? Where did they come from? Why were they so breathtaking? Why-? His heart stopped as a thought pierced his mind. What was Dean going to think? Would this be the moment his brother finally accepted their words and saw Sam as a monster? What would he say? What would he do? 

There was no telling how long he stood there, eyes trained on nothing but the new growth of feather sprouting from him. Then suddenly, there was a deafening sound of the motel door unlocking and opening. 

"Sam, they didn't have any of your rabbit food, so you got pancakes and bacon,"

His eyes widened with panic. When did Dean get back? He should have heard the Impala. No! No! No! He didn't know what to say or do! What could he do? What could he possibly say?

"I lied, you had bacon," panic ran through him like a bolt of electricity. He whirled around and placed himself in front of the door. He could not let Dean in. Dean could be allowed to see him, "but it's ok. It wasn't that good,"

Sam rested his head against his forearms, putting all his weight against the door. His wings seemed to follow the lead of the rest of his body, as adrenaline was one hell of a drug and the new appendages snapped shut. Slamming into his back at breakneck speeds.

Sam was discovering new things. One: these wings were very, very, real. Two: they were very, very, sensitive at the moment.

His eyes were closed tight as he bit down on his bottom lip as he fought to keep in a whimper. The pain was almost blinding. He didn't move a single mussel, fearful that it would only lead to more pain.

"Sam?" Dean called out, as he placed down bags of food.

Sam stayed as silent as he could, even if he knew it wouldn't help. It was making his brother all the more worried, but he couldn't make a sound. He knew that his voice would fail him and cause all the more worry. The door handle jiggled as he tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge with Sam's weight on it.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was concerned and on edge. The sound of a gun safety being clicked off echoed in his head.

Another wave of pain washed over him, bringing with it dizziness. He tried to keep his weight on the door, but it felt as if the wings were pulling him down. He tried to grab onto a towel rack for balance. The force of Dean trying to bang the door open offset his feeble balance, and sent more pounding into his head. One hand went to his head to alleviate the pain, while the other tried to hang on to the rack. Sadly he was too much for it as he fell backward as the door finally opened. 

The door banging against his foot barely registered among the solar flare of pain that seemed swept over him. Flaring up, then receding just to wash over him once again.

The pain, by some curse, was not blinding enough to block out other feelings. Sam knew he had broken into a cold sweat as it dripped down his brow like ice caressing his skin. He was aware of every inch of skin, every nerve, he could feel it all. He was aware of his being, and it piled into his ailments. His entire being was all he could understand, everything else seemed to fade into obscurity.

For everything he was feeling, Sam didn't even register that someone was in the tiny bathroom with him. He didn't notice green eyes sweeping the small room behind a gun, or the gun being quickly put away as the figure kneeled down next to him. Or the concern and panicked words, or how the green eyes kept jumping from his face to the wings tucked tightly against him. But he was acutely aware of how warm tears felt as if they were burning his skin before they cooled into ice, melting into his sweat.

But when the figure put a hand on him, maybe it was meant to be comforting, but it was hot. Too hot, it burned him like a brand fresh out of the fire, sizzling against him, branding his skin scarring it. Was it searing this experience into his memory forever, as if he could forget the pain. If he lived past this.

His ears began to ring, as if there was a siren next to his ear. Then it only got worse, as the sounds seemed to divide into individual voices, before they all meshed together. Thousands of screaming voices. He tried to cover his ears, bring his arms over his head. But nothing could deafen the screams. No! They were in his head, clawing and tearing to escape.

If he could, Sam would crack his own head open with a labrys and hope the voices jumped out. 

There was no pinpointing when he had started screaming, he couldn't even hear over the voices. Yet his throat was raw as he continued to scream. Maybe he could scream louder than the voices.

A gentle rumble made its way through the screams, it sounded like far off thunder rolling in. Far off and yet unknown, warning and almost apologetic mumbling of things to come. He then felt the weight on his throat.


	4. Answers on the Backs if Birds

Dean watched his younger brother, looking more like a kicked dog hiding in a corner than something monsters ran from. He sat as far from Dean as he could, his eyes tracking his every move. Yet, Sam refused to meet his eyes, he didn't want to see whatever look his brother couldn't hide. Or even worse, the cold unaffected facade he put up. 

Dean let out a sigh before a thought erupted. What if something could sense the wings? What if Sam got hurt? Dean was up and across the room. Sam watched as his brother drifted through bags and draws till he had a handful of papers and a sharpie. He couldn't understand what Dean was doing until he saw a familiar symbol.

He was hiding them. 

He was hiding Sam.

But what, exactly, was he hiding?

Dean let out an annoyed sigh as he found that anything even relevant to wings was of no use to him. They knew half of what they were finding, the other half was utterly useless.

"Dean," Sam spoke in a hushed tone as he nursed a cheap cup of coffee Dean had made him, 

"I'm not finding anything Sammy," Dean said, feeling like a failure of a big brother. This is what they did for God's sake, research creatures, and help people. So why couldn't he find anything to help his brother.

Sam looked away from him and seemed to be in his thoughts. It took far too much for Dean to pull Sam out of his panic to let him fall back.

"Sam," 

Sam looked back to his brother, "Dean, you should go tall to Cas." Dean tried to interrupt him, but Sam continued despite him, "He is the only angle we could even think about trusting, and wings seem like something he'd know about,"

Dean ran his hand over his face, he knew Sam was right.

Dean got into baby and turned on the radio, letting old songs wash over him. He sang along, letting some of his nerves go. Washing his mind of angles and wings and letting his mind go blank.

Soon he arrived at a mom and pop burger joint, he parked baby out of sight of the lone camera and sat there a moment. Composing himself he got his thoughts together and made his way inside.

Opening the door a happy jingle sounded. One or two of the few customers glanced over at him, only to look back to their plates. The only one to notice him was a waitress who made her way over to him, her red lips pulled into a smile.

"Hello Sir," She said, "Booth or Table?"

"Booth," He then added with a charming smile, "Is there one by a window?"

"Absolutely!" Her smile didn't falter as she turned to grab a menu, her brunette hair swung in its high ponytail, "Table for one?"

"Two actually,"

Too preoccupied with his thoughts of how the conversation would go, Dean missed how she seemed to deflate, her smile a bit more forced. She led him to a table close to the kitchen, but a window booth just like he asked. 

"Will she be joining you soon?" She, Kelly as her name tag read, asked as she handed him a menu.

Dean let his eyes wander over the laminated surface as he corrected her, "He should be,"

Her eyes lit up and her lips curved upwards, she began flirting with Dean. Not that he paid enough attention to her to notice. He ran over what he would one last time, only tuning her back in to order his food, then returning to his thoughts. He sat down and ordered. 

"Thanks," Dean said as a plate of food was placed in front of him. 

"I'll check in on you in a bit sweetheart," Once she walked away, Dean's elbows on either side of his plate. He rests his head against his hands as he prays.

"Cas, I, uh, want- need, to speak with you," Dean stumbled over his first few words of praying to his angle, "regarding Lucifer and how to-"

"Hello, Dean,"

Dean opened his eyes to see a familiar disheveled face. Wearing the same diary trench coat and croaked tie sat Castiel, "Hey' a Cas,"

Castiel looked around taking in the small-town diner. With a checkered tiled floor underfoot of tables whose color had been wiped away with time. The sounds of the few occupants mixed in the air with chefs in the kitchen cooking. The sound of the radio backdropping with the sound of a woman humming a lovely song.

Breakfast smells wafted through the air pushed around by the ac blasting cold air to fight off the summer heat.

He took this all in, enjoying the atmosphere of it all, till he noticed the waitress watching their table.

She was pretty, long brunette hair pulled into a high ponytail. Bright red lipstick that contrasted well with her pale skin. But her dark blue eyes flicked over Castiel with relief and hope before settling on Dean with lustful eyes.

Castile's eyes narrowed at her before returning to the righteous man, "You asked me here to speak about Lucifer,"

"Yeah," Dean started as he poked some eggs with his fork, then looked back up, "So far nothing been going our way, and I wanted to know if there was any angle secret to take him down,"

"An angel secret way? Dean if there were any, we would have used the resource already" 

An egg-filled fork waged in the air disappointingly at the angel's words. And much to his annoyance, a few bits of egg fell, thankfully, onto the plate below. 

The angle squinted at the fallen eggs before returning his gaze up to look at the hunter. He was surprised to see that Sam was not there, nor was there a plate for him. Across from him just sat the elder Winchester eating far too many eggs for one bite.

Castiel interrupted whatever Dean was going to say, "Where is Sam?"

He faltered a moment in his eggs, "Sam is," He swallowed the egg, "doing his own research. But I, personally, thought we should ask you for anything, as we had yet to find anything,"

Dean cleared his throat, "So, any angel secrets?"

Vessels were odd, in Castiel's personal opinion, as nothing had happened, yet the way Dean had looked at him, it made his vessel feel odd. The feeling was not a bad one, but it was odd

As if a Phoenix had restarted a cycle inside. A sudden warmth as his stomach fluttered with life.

"I," Castiel started, "Do not know what you would consider an 'angel secret,'"

"Like something with your halos- " 

"Dean that's not-"

"Or grace, or wings, or even- " he paused as he saw Cas' face change from open and ready to help to a sudden change of being closed off. He looked like he was ready to fly off. "What's up with wings Cas?"

The angle wasn't able to respond, as the waitress came over to their table. Her red lips back to what seemed to be her signature smile.  
  
"How is everything going over here?"

Castiel gave her an even look. He had been alive for billions of years, yet hearing this waitress seemed to drag on forever.

Suddenly Castiel stood up, surprising Dean and the waitress, "I will be waiting in the car to continue our conversation and show you the more physical aspects you were asking about,"

Red lips gasped at what she assumed he meant, her mind ran rampant with contempt and imagination of the two.

When Dean finally met Castiel at the impala, the angel was waiting in the passenger seat. The sun was just being its descent from the top of the world. Shadows grew ever so slightly longer and more exaggerated. 

Dean took his seat behind the wheel and looked over at his angel. His eyes held a silent question, one he wouldn't voice aloud. 

Are you alright? 

The response was silent as well, yet no less real. Yes, I am ok. With no words there were no lies, there was only understanding. 

And just as the moment arrived, it vanished like a spooked bird at the sound of a loud sudden thunderous snap underfoot. Defenses that had momentarily been lowered were back up.

"What were you going to show me?"

"Drive," Castiel, it suddenly dawned on him that this may not be the best idea, "I, we, will need more privacy," Dean did nothing more than arch an eyebrow as he pulled out of the parking lot.

Trees passed and at the first old abandoned dirt road, Dean turned in. Old weathered signs read as private property, to stay off the land. But by the looks of the overgrown path, no one had been down this road for years.

Minutes passed with neither speaking, the radio signal cut out, leaving the two with only the rumble of the impala to fill the salience. Then, after finding a small clearing, Dean finally parked.

The two stepped out, the impala giving out one last rumble before silence enveloped them. Feeling as if breaking something sacred Dean spoke

"So, wings huh?"

"Dean, you have to understand an angel's wings, they are a part of them. A representation of who the angel is and where they stand amongst heavens forces,"

"Their size, coloring, even down to their feathers, every detail tells the angel's story. Wings have been known to change in the midst of battles as an angel saves a brethren or defeats an enemy,"  
  
Castiel took a step back away from Dean. His eyes glowed with grace as large shadows appeared amongst the trees. Then in a blink, a sound that could only be that of angel wings was heard. Loud like thunder hitting the earth. The dusk light, a pair of black wings sat, the shadow had disappeared. It was as if the wings themselves had been woven of the shadows and brought to life with lighting.

The clearing seemed alive unlike before, there was a humm of power, a presence, a warmth.

Dean's eyes lost all semblance of green, as they reflected the pale grace blue, as they looked at the wings with awe.

"Whoah," Dean spoke in a hushed tone, almost to himself as he had trouble pulling his eyes from the dark feathers, captivating his attention like a black hole. Jutting g from his shoulder blades they swooped up to just past his ears before only to fall into the familiar wing shape. The wings spread as if stretching to their full length, one wing was almost the size of the impala, before folding neatly behind.

"They are," dean stuffed one hand into his jacket pocket, the other scratched the back of his neck as he fought to find his words, "They're large,"

Castiel couldn't stop the way his wings puffed with pride or how the sinful feeling wormed its way into his chest. The powerful feeling that surrounded them seemed to fade, it was until the present. It hid in the trees and bushes, watching from under the leaves like a cat waiting to pounce.

"My wings are quite the normal size, though I can see why you would find them large, as you are used to seeing wings of birds."

Dean blinked, Sam's wings were smaller, almost half the size. Then it could just be the wongs looking tiny strapped to his giant of a brother. Pushing the thoughts away quickly Dean quickly filled the salience, "Oh do they come in extra large and extra small?"

"Yes actually. Most Angel's have wings similar to mine in size and shape, but then there are the archangel's wings. They have three sets, one like mine, and two more. Large outermost wings and smaller innermost wings."

"Why tho?"

"Wings can be seen as a visual of how powerful an angel is. The story goes that when God first made the archangel, he made the innermost wings with the utmost care of his first drafts, then the middlemost pair, making them larger more durable, lastly the outermost wings, he made them bigger and stronger to withstand ballets fit for heavens greatest weapons,"

Dean sat and thought for a moment, "What if an angels' wings were cut off-"

Castiel's eyes narrowed, a faint glow of blue. The air seemed to hiss with grace as black wings bristled, seeming to be moments away from launching the angle into a fight or finding the quickest escape.

"No," the word was final and dangerous. Dean found himself reminded that Castiel may be his friend, but he was still one of heavens warriors.

"To harm an angel's wings, it's something unspeakable. Our vessels are like shells, if damaged we can shed them and find another. But our wings, they are a part of us, they are us."

Dean sat on the hood of the impala, his arms behind his head as he looked up at the sky. He couldn't see it all too well, as the branches of the trees blocked most of his view, but it was still nice.

Castiel had kept a bit of distance, grace a light buzz in the air. But soon, he joined Dean. Leaning against the impala, Castiel looked up at the stars. The two stayed like that for a while.

But Dean's eyes drifted. The dark feathers sat just in the corner of his sight. With a slight tilt of his head, he got a better look.

They sat in what Dean would describe as a somewhat relaxed position. They had a healthy sheen to them. He watched them, he saw that they moved as he breathed, raising and falling with each breath. Swaying slightly.

In the dying light, the pink sky gave the dark feathers a purple tinge. With a small surprise, Dean realized that Castiel's wings were not black, but a dark navy.

Castiel looked over at the hunter.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean implored, "How do you put your wings away?"

The question was innocent.

Castiel looked back up at the sky as he spoke, "They sink into me, into my grace, going from a physical form to becoming one with my grace,"

"But what does it feel like?" Dean asked as he looked back up at the sky.

"It's like-" Castiel started but was interrupted by Dean's phone ringing, breaking the silence, startling both men.

Dean sent an apologetic look to the angle as he pulled out his phone. It was a message from Sam.

"Will you bring food on your way back?"

The message was clear to Dean. Where are you? How soon will you be back? Will you bring me food? But it also meant Sam wanted food.

Dean quickly looked over at Cas, "Hey Cas, thanks for everything, but I gotta go," 

Castiel got up from where he was leaning against the impala with a nod. Dean slipped off her hood and got into the driver's seat. He turned to say goodbye to his angel, but the sound of wings told him that Cas was gone.

Without looking back, Dean drove back into the road. He parked in the same spot as before and walked back into the dinner.

It seemed that they would be closing soon. As everyone had left, save what seemed to be a few workers.

The same waitress a before greeted him. Her eyes scanned him with an almost disgusted jealous look.

But Dean was tired and wanted to hurry home. He grabbed the menu and glanced over looking for the healthiest rabbit food they had. Or would Sam actually start actually eating normal none rabbit food?

As he quickly scanned, he missed how his disheveled appearance was taken, alongside how he left.  
  
"I need a salad to go, ranch separate," Dean ordered as he handed the menu back to her, checking the time. If he got the food within the next fifteen minutes, he could be back at the motel in thirty.

He glanced up, Sherry was still there. [More stuff]

Dean quickly paid for his food and got into the impala. He went only 30 miles over the speed limit and made it back to the motel in twenty-five minutes.

He opened the motel door, darkness greeted him with only a single lamp and the light from the open door in which he stood.

His eyes scanned the room, looking for any sign of his brother, or any hint of foul play. Flipping the lights on Dean saw that Sam was fine.

His younger brother was curled up on one of the beds. He looked peaceful and human. No wings could be seen. [Add more]

Dean smiled at the sight, but they were Winchesters. Their good luck always seemed to run out. And so he turned to one person he knew he could trust.

Dean began dialing the number as he started to pack up their things. It only rang twice before a familiar voice answered. 

"Hey Bobby," Weapons were packed into their bags, and he began throwing clothes in bags. And thus, he began explaining the situation as he packed them up with expertise that came from years of doing it.

Once everything was explained and packed back into Baby, the conversation ended with promises of books and lore. Dean took   
down the symbols and put then in the impala 

Putting his phone away, Dean shook Sam awake gently. Sam groaned but he woke up enough to be led to the back seat to fall back asleep.

With that, they drove off to Bobby's.


	5. Birds of a Feather...

Sam woke up on a couch with a start. It took him a moment to realize he was at Bobby's. It felt like years since he was last here, yet it had only been months--or maybe weeks?

Sam lied there some few moments longer before willing himself onto his feet. Still only half awake, he made his way into the bathroom.

Stepping into the linoleum floor and hesitating to close the door, the once familiar action now had him second-guessing. Regardless, he passed the door shut and the solid click of said door seemed to echo.

He wanted to laugh at himself. What would dad say? ‘He'd probably say nothing, but glare at me for the sin of inhumanity. Thinking and whispering when I'm out of earshot of how he would kill me,' Sam thought bitterly.

His father's last words left a still familiar sting.

Sam ran his hand over his face, desperately needing to calm down. Stripping off his clothes, Sam glanced over himself. Nothing but the scars that litter his skin from years of hunting harshly bedazzled and ravaged his frame. Nothing new, no large wounds of where wings had sprouted from.

Could it all have been a dream, created by far too much research trying to take down Lucifer? He wanted to believe, so he gave in and let himself do so. Even if it was only for the time a small shower would take to finish, Sam would accept with ready arms.

He could not be another flavor of abomination, could he? His mind implanted within him a term from when he went off to college to be a lawyer, what a dream that was. Double jeopardy; a person could not be tried for the same crime twice. So it was all another sick dream. He had to believe it or at least to function semi-normally.

Trudging out of the shower, Sam only offered a cursory glance at his form before drying and clothing himself. Out of the bathroom, he was greeted with a burst of cold air. He grabbed a flannel shirt off a nearby chair, throwing it on.

As he made his way into the kitchen, Sam noticed Bobby's new decoration.

Man, if hunting didn't work out, he could be an interior designer. While the thought seemed funny to Sam, he realized that such an alternate path could’ve proved safer for the man he held dear. Dealing with snobbish upper-class in place of monsters in the dark 

Papers were tacked onto the walls with a disorganized order. Symbols he could only hope to translate after nights scouring through books were scrawled onto each page.

Walking past, Sam entered the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee and slumped into a chair. He listened to Dean and Bobby talk back and forth. He didn't pay much attention to what they were saying, just enjoying the familiar sounds of equally familiar voices. After a minute of sipping his coffee, Sam was more aware of his surroundings and less dead to the world.

"So," Bobby began, opening another beer in the quieted room. The two Winchesters looked at each other under the gaze of the elder hunter.

"Wings, can't say that I ever imagined that being something I'd see. But neither were angels. Dean already told me what happened." Bobby put the bottle to his lips and muttered, "You idjits would be the ones in a mess like this. Figures."

Sam looked down at his coffee, wondering why he couldn’t have just listened to Dean. 

Leave the crypt alone. Let sleeping dogs--or things, in this case--lie.

Then, the small silence that had developed was soon pierced by a song bird's sudden cry. A cup of coffee knocked over was accompanied by an all too familiar whoosh. A bright flash of white, and a sharp intake of breath.

Sam's knuckles were as white as his feathers as he tried to stabilize himself with the table. It was working somewhat, as the sensitive feathers were once again brushing against objects around them. They were open wide, as if to show themselves off, offered anyone dare scoff at them.

The two men sat there, looking at Sam with wings like snow. 

Sam didn't notice their reactions as he stood up slowly. The wings seemed to be with the program and pulled in some, closer to Sam.

The men held their breaths as Sam stood away from the table. He was almost in the clear when a lone beer bottle was knocked over.

Sam whirled around, looking for the source of the sound. Taking a step back was only natural for him, as it was a step away to look at the situation and determine if he was in danger. What monsters were jumping out of the shadows? What also seemed to be instinct was the fact that his wings were opening as tall and wide as they would go in an attempt to look as big as possible.

What most likely an amazing angel defense mechanic was not so amazing for Sam, whose wings slammed into a table full of who knows what and a tall bookshelf that held blankets of dust.

Dean was by his side in an instant.

"You alright Sammy?" He could barely restrain himself from checking the other over for injuries. The large white wings and memories of last time were all that kept him at bay. 

Sam looked at the other two with wide eyes, looking much like a spooked puppy. A cloud of dust was settling, most of it coating Sam.

"I'm…” Sam coughed from inhaling some dust, "I'm fine Dean, it’s not as bad as last time, but it doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt like a bitch."

\--

Dean went outside and leaned on the railing of Bobby's house. He took a moment to look out. The sun was high in the sky but was just about to tip over and fall into dusk. Overgrown plants swayed in the warm breeze, brushing against abandoned cars that littered the property.

Like only hours before, Dean bowed his head and prayed. He prayed to the one being he knew would answer him.

"Dean,"

The righteous man looked over at the angel, his head tilted in concern. He, the angel, looked more disheveled than normal. His eyes, normally clear blue skies, were dark and troubled as if a storm was brewing. It almost felt as if a storm was just on the horizon, electricity whispering past his skin.

"You." Dean looked over Cas. His mouth went dry as his heart seemed to trip over itself. His mind halted at the sight of his angel, disheveled but humming with power and grace. So human, yet so much more.

Dean wet his lips, "You, uh, you ok man?"

Castiel's head tilted to the side as he looked over Dean, noting his odd behavior, "No, there has been an unseen development."

The angel looked oh-so human as he leaned against the railing next to Dean with his forearms. The midday sun bathing him in warm light.

"If Lucifer's wings are not found by heaven, the damage they could unleash is unknowable. Even alone they could cause chaos on levels the world has not seen in millennia, but if Lucifer once more gains his wings…"

Dean froze at the mention of wings, "Well Cas, I think I can help you with that,"

"What do you mean dean?" Castiel stood tall, taking a step closer to Dean, invading his personal space. "Dean if you know something--anything--you must tell me. This information could be the deciding factor in this war. With all his wings, at full power, there will be little to stop Lucifer from stealing Sam from us, you, and plunging the world into the apocalypse."

During his speech, Cas had moved closer and was now inches from Dean. The angel’s expression remained solid like stone.

"Dean," he felt the angel’s breath against his skin, "you must tell me,"

Almost eye to eye with Castiel, Dean noticed the other's scent. Myrrh and Jasmine, "The wings, I know where they are."

Castiel grabbed into the hunter's jacket, "Where?"

"Inside.”

The words barely left his mouth before he was released. Castiel abandoned him and the sound of wings could be heard. Yet, Castiel only moved a few feet closer to the door. He turned to glare at the hunter, his eyes now not that of a friend but a warrior on a mission.

"We had to ward the place Cas," He felt as if he had to explain himself under the others glare, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, "It's much easier to just walk in."

Stepping around his friend, Dean opened the door and led the angel inside. Castiel was only a step behind as they walked into the crowded home, looking like an educated drunk lived there, because one did.

When they first walked in, Bobby's neutral frown greeted them in the doorway entering the kitchen.

Castiel eyed the two hunters, they were acting odd. He walked past both of them and into the kitchen. 

There sat Sam, all too identifiable wings sprouting from his back.

Sam had wings, his wings. His grace was faint but undeniable. Lucifer. Lucifer had taken Sam as a vessel, the apocalypse would start soon. Dean.

An angel blade slipped into his hand. The Archangel may have the hunters fooled, but Castiel would die trying to keep the remaining Winchesters safe. He did not plunge himself into hell for everything to end so quickly.

His mood and intentions must have been betrayed in his face. Dean put himself between Castiel, his hand on the angel's shoulder, holding him in place.

"Cas, it's Sam. Just Sam," Dean stressed the point, "Sam stumbled into a crypt, earning himself his new wing. Cas, we need your help, not you going for his neck,"

Castiel let out a long breath. Of course, only with the Winchesters would this happen.

He rubbed his head, at least Sam looked somewhat embarrassed for being in this situation.

Cas took a step towards Sam, getting a closer look at the wings. Sam, for his part, only glanced at the angel, staying still. Considering Castiel was trying to kill him not a minute ago, he was a good sport.

Castiel looked at the hunter then at the two onlookers, "Dean, you two must leave the room. I must speak to Sam, and these words are not meant for human ears, yet like many times before, you Winchesters seem to be exceptions "

Dean looked over at Sam. The too had a silent discussion, then Dean nodded and followed Bobby out of the kitchen. 

Castiel stood by the door, watching the two walk away. Once satisfied they were far enough, he returned his attention to Sam.

The air seemed to come alive with a whisper against Sam's skin, growing into a sudden shout, then back to the calm whisper. Sam looked at the angel, now with large dark grey wings.

Unbeknownst to Sam's wings spread wide and tall, his heart spread with the feeling of grace. It was so foreign, so… uncomfortable. He couldn't find the right words. It was like seeing an old childhood home now broken and withered. It sent chills down his spine.

"Sam, calm yourself, I will not do you harm." It was ok, fine, and to be expected.

"Sam," Castiel began, "How aware are you of the wings?" Sam blinked at the question. He had to chew on and mull over the question for what-felt-like-ever before he could give a concrete answer.

\--

Dean leaned against the basement wall. The cool, rough wall seemed miles away as his mind swam.

"You just gonna sit there, or are you gonna help?" Bobby asked as he moved a box full of random do-dads from over the years. 

Dean bit back a smart remark as he began helping go through the different boxes. Crystals, a spray can lid, small leather pieces half marked with symbols. Anything that could be used in the future was taken out to be used later

So basically, Dean was glancing at the items before dumping them into boxes unceremoniously.

Bobby had paused in his work to watch Dean's dismal display of doing daringly lazy work. He shook his head in disappointment, 'tsking'.

Dean paused from what he was doing and looked up. Bobby let out a sigh when he saw Dean's eyes. They swam with emotion, mostly worry, yet there seemed to be something else there, too.

Dean opened his mouth, either to defend himself or to retort. A clatter and shouting silenced his words. 

Dean looked at Bobby with begging eyes. The only hold keeping him from bolting into the kitchen with very thin self-control.

"Go, boy,"

Dean needed nothing more before racing off, all else forgotten.

\--

"I was not going to mention this, but your wings are filthy"

Sam let out a short laugh. Filthy was correct. Some of the dust and dirt had fallen as he and Castiel worked to help Sam understand how to work with his wings and understand. Nonetheless, they were still filthy.

Castiel showed Sam with his dark wings how to clean and preen his wings.

Castiel looked over the wings, starting at the bend of the wing he followed it down till he got to where skin met wing. His eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. He could see no way to remove the wings. Well not without the help of the wing's originator. The thought of Sam being anywhere near the Archangel put a bad taste in his mouth, as the saying went. 

Castiel pulled his own wing in front of himself. Then he proceeded to start preening his wing. Slowly, he showed Sam his meticulous process of cleaning and straightening his own wings. 

Then after a moment, he asked Sam to do the same with him, making sure the other understood how. Even if they had issues today, they could continue working on the skill later. Sam was able to bring his own wing to where he could clean it, so that at least was a success.

Sam followed along well enough. A few issues were pointed out then quickly fixed. A few errors had already been fixed. Yet, when Sam went to yet again make another, a more grave mistake, Castiel's hand shot out to stop him.

He felt as if he had been plunged into a frozen ocean. The overwhelming, blisteringly cold atmosphere bit into him--clawing further into him. A shiver ran through his grace. A familiar, yet foreign, feeling.

The first bite was a knee-jerk reaction, one made in a blink without thought. Then the anger--the cold, terrorizing anger. His grace whimpered under the assault.

Quick, bolting apologies flew through the connection. Every quick, terrified apology whipped out like a small bolt jumps from a live wire.

'Who are you? Why are you touching me? Did you steal my wings? Return them. Or pay dearly.'

Words were biting as they flowed through the connection. Castiel could only send more terrified apologies at the furious Archangel's words.

'Brother, I am just trying to help, you must understand,"

Castiel was pleading for Lucifer to understand. The connection was cut when Castiel's body finally reacted and pulled away.

There was a loud clang as Castiel staggered back, knocking over a chair. Sam looked wide-eyed at Castiel in surprise at the sudden action. 

Not moments after the loud clatter of the chair and the raised voices, Dean barged in. His eyes flickered around and looked for danger. He was searching for a way to help, a way to protect him from any danger that sought to rear its ugly head.

"What happened?" The hunter’s tone was gruff and to the point. His body was poised to take action against whatever and whoever, hoping to help in a situation he found himself helpless in.

"I..." Sam started, large eyes of worry and uncertainty found Cas. Such a stare matched that of his wavering voice. "I don't know, he just started freaking out."

Dean made moves to respond. His mouth was out and ready to defend Cas from whatever spooked him, yet he never had the chance as the angel interrupted him.

"There's nothing I can do." 

Castiel stood to his full height and looked at the small group. Not minutes ago, he was ready to fight to his own end,

"Dean, there is nothing I can do that will help," he reiterated. Why couldn't he understand? If he stayed, he'd bring down both heaven and hell on the brothers. He was a beacon to their location.

"Nothing?!" Dean snarled. The righteous man, the man who sold his soul for his brother, was about to witness that same brother fall through the cracks--all because of Cas. 

Only would a Winchester brother be put through agony like this.


	6. A Caged Dove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is stuck at home, rlly do suck 2 B him.

Sam Winchester is a grown man. He paid taxes, sometimes, and now towered over most things. Yet he once again felt like a kid. He was left behind while everyone else went on a job due to being too fragile. He hated the very idea of this with his being, yet like every other time, what choice did he have?

Sam sat sprawled out on Bobby's spare bed, reading over anything that even superficially mentioned wings or angels. He had hoped to distract himself from all the emotions that seemed to be bubbling under his skin.

Loneliness was breathing down his neck, like a dry wind in a desolate desert, its howling haunting.

Sam felt the stagnant weight down in him, choking him in feelings of uselessness and looming, brewing despair. 

Sam began straightening up the room a bit. He needed something to do. Throwing different beer bottles into a trash bag, taking any stay dishes to the sink and washing them; and washing blankets, pillows, anything he could.

By the third day, the house looked cleaner than it had in years. Now, that wasn't saying much, as it still looked like an alcoholic recluse lived there. But at least there were no filthy dishes and the blankets smelled of 'spring meadows' in place of beer and ashes.

Sam was now slowly trying to find something to once more fill his time with. He sat in the basement, digging into a box. He hoped to find something--anything. He didn't know what he was looking for, mostly just something to do.

He picked up a crystal. It was small and round, not even filling the palm of his hand. He tossed it lightly up into the air, catching it easily. He noticed the light blue stone had a large crack.

It almost reminded him of a lightning bolt. The thought tugged at his lips, pulling them down as he remembered Castiel. Even an angel of the lord could hardly stand a monstrosity like him.

His hand tightened into a fist around the small rock. His knuckles grew whiter than a biting winter. Sam's face twisted into a snarl, a low throaty sound escaped him. The shelf swayed as wings raised to imitate the small pebble.

His grip on the stupid rock tightened. With his growing grip, the rock seemed to add more cracks to its repertoire. He felt it dig into his hand as it cracked further. Or did it crack when connected with the wall?

The clinking of the small pieces seemed to snap him out of emotions. He blinked. Looking at the shattered shards, no longer smooth, but jagged, uneven pieces.

Sam looked at his hand, knuckles fading from white into a blushing red, resembling the rest of his hand.

Noticing that he now had wings, Sam let out a sigh. He had been doing good, he had almost gone two days without them. He pushed the wings from his mind.

Why had he been so angry? Why had his serotonin levels suddenly decided to plummet and abandon him so arbitrarily? 

Sam bent down to pick up the shards, trying to find fitting parts--maybe in hope to put it back together as some sort of an apology--only for his efforts to prove fruitless.

Running his free hand through his hair, at the same time a stressed, disgruntled sigh came from his lips. Dumping the mess into a box full of a--what seemed to be--discard pile. 

"Why not?" He asked himself as he grabbed the box. Taking it upstairs, he began trifling through the box. He hoped to find something interesting, something that would attract his attention for a while. 

He found a small bone, becoming unsure of what it could have originally belonged to as it resembled a thick toothpick. He also found stray beads scattered in the bottom of the box with other small objects that had fallen to the bottom. Then his eye caught something. 

Leather bands, inscribed half way. Half the words were familiar. This band had a Latin protection spell. Another seemed to be Greek. Not one of them seemed to be finished though. Some seemed to be engraved with a knife. Words sliced into the leather were unknown and unrecognized, and now useless.

He ran his fingers over the etched words, trying to look past the jagged defacement and read what was underneath. They seemed to be heavy protection spells. If his Sumerian wasn't awful, it was a power dampening shield from unwanted eyes as well. All this new information was clouding his mind, and Sam had to think in layman’s terms for a second. Oh, it cloaks the wearer. Got it. 

Sam's fingers froze as an idea came to him, a grin growing on his face. He shuffled through the box, pulling out whatever leather strips he could find. Most were scraps he knew he could do little with. But then, he finally pulled out a long length of leather. It was about a few inches side to side, but it was half the length of his arm. 

Putting it to the side, Sam began combing through Bobby's books for anything that resembled what he needed. Thankfully, most of the books were already pulled out, and pages marked. Sam was thankful for that little timesaver. 

So, Sam began scouring through the old books, marking down anything that would help, making sure to write himself a small note of what they did and where he found them.

He didn't notice how the morning sun was moving through the sky. Making its track to the mid-afternoon high before chasing the moon again, putting on a breathtaking show as it did.

The red-orange light was painting the pages when Sam felt himself smile. He finally had everything, or at least he was mostly sure as he had yet to implement his idea.

Sam let out a large yawn as he stretched. Letting his eyes rest a moment, he looked outside. He, of course, wasted the day away by researching (which made him laugh. Just like college, Sammy). He could hear Dean calling him a nerd now. 

The thought sobered any mirth he had, replacing it with an ache for the others.

He pushed thoughts of Dean and Bobby (even Castiel, but he pushed those even further down for fear of another reaction) aside in favor of dinner. His body quickly reminding him he had missed the other meals.

Sam was in the middle of grilling a few stripes of chicken when his phone buzzed. Taking the pan off the hot eye he set it aside before opening his phone.

It was a text from Dean checking up on him. Sam couldn't help but smile as he responded. Feeling like a prisoner contacting the outside world.

\--

Morning came far too early. Waking up later than he would prefer Sam dragged himself out of bed. Blurry eyed, he began a pot of coffee. As he waited for it, he noticed his notes from the night before.

He grinned, ready to begin working, however unlike yesterday he would eat breakfast. 

After inhaling eggs with excitement much like a child, Sam finally was ready to begin his work.

Taking out a small knife, Sam quickly did a cursory double check of his runes. Satisfied, Sam sketched the first design with a pencil into the leader. Going in with his knife, Sam began carving.

It only took him ten minutes to feel as if it wasn't going right, then another twenty to give in that he was just ruining the leather. He had no use for what he was doing.

Sam spent a half-hearted glare at the strip of leather. He threw it into a pile with the rest of the strips, a small temper tantrum on his part. But hey, he was keeping himself inside at least.

Bobby wouldn't care if he burnt them, right? The thoughts swirled through his mind. He let the thoughts simmer a bit longer before putting them out. Destructive desires were half the reason he was in this mess to begin with. 

He set his jaw. 'Stupid demon,' he thought bitterly back to the demon who played him like a like cheap kazoo. With even the smallest hint of talent, she wooed him with her singing. He knew it was off tune, yet he tapped his foot to her tune nonetheless. 

"Stupid demon, stupid Lucifer, stupid angles, stupid wings, and stupid leather," he hissed to himself. Then like a child, he kicked the box. Not enough to break anything inside, he wasn't that stupid, but enough that the raddling form inside caught his attention.

With an eyebrow raised, he once again dove into the box. Digging a moment, he soon found small beads. He took a few and rolled them in his hand, raising an eyebrow at the small carvings.

He wanted to kick himself.

So, Sam began collecting small beads to carve. Unsurprisingly, Sam didn't find many. Well, he found a rosary, but he thought better of cutting it up for the beads.

Sam was on the couch hoping to find something when the phone rang out. Quickly scrambling out from under, Sam rushed to the phone. Making it over to the phone, Sam saw it was the house phone ringing. 

"Hello?" The phone was barely off the receiver, his voice calm with an edge of panic that always came with these calls. He never knew if it was a check in call, or John calling him to order him to pack up the motel room they were leaving immediately. Or the one he dreamt most, a call with bloody coughs and regretful tones, one that hoarsely spoke hospital addresses.

"Sam," the gruff tone was a flood of relief, it held no indexation of panic. "We've hit a bit of a dead end, but we found something. On the book shelf by the couch there should be a book, see if there's anything on-"

Sam listened, writing on a small notepad everything Bobby said. Neither had a chance to speak about anything else. Dean had interrupted the contact by telling Bobby there was another body (from what Sam could hear on the other side of the phone).

As the phone clicked off, Sam pushed his own product aside. Marking the pages, Sam put the books to the side and began digging for something new, something urgent. Despite the situation, he felt lighter. Having something to do, something important and urgent.

Maybe being confined to a little shack proved fruitful after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, Sam being stupid with the leather is based off me being stupid and thinking it was a thing. You know, carving leather. As you do. 
> 
> Neway, hope everyone has a Merry Winter and a happy New Year. Hope you stay safe and happy! <3


End file.
